I'm a transplanted Brit, living in Greece for the past quarter of a century.
Long of limb, broad of beam, open of mind and impatient of nature, I can sometimes wreak havoc without meaning to.
But I MEAN well....

Friday, 31 October 2014

She
breathed a sigh of exhausted relief as she laid her baby girl gently in the
cot. Big blue eyes blinked sleepily up at her, then closed as the child finally
surrendered to the deep rhythms of sleep. Georgia fingered the gaudy blue bead
at her throat and said a prayer to the god she didn’t believe it that her
daughter would never know humiliation she had growing up.

The
necklace had been a gift from her superstitious Greek grandmother, Yiayia Gogo,
on her 12th birthday. It was, she had said, to protect her from the
evil eye but also carried a special charm that would protect others too.

“I know you think is all Greek stupidity, my
darling,” she had
said. “But I KNOW. You have your aunt
Voula’s eyes – powerful eyes – and there lies the danger.”

Georgia had
laughed as she thought of her sweet great aunt in the Gogo’s home village
halfway up a Greek mountain. Her benevolent gaze through watery, saucer-like
blue eyes looked anything but powerful or dangerous to her.

“Go on, you laugh,” her grandmother had said. “But even if you don’t believe, wear it always – please – as a favour
to your Yiayia.”

So she had
promised.

Every day,
she wore the pea-sized stone the colour of a blue Lego brick, with a creepy eyeball
crudely painted on it. Even when the mean girls at school who never missed the
chance to mock her for her weight, her lack of grace, her love of books and
lack of boyfriends spotted the bauble. Then one day, in a fit of teen
rebellion, she slipped it off and hid it at the bottom of her pencil case.

Lucy and her
gang of long limbed, expensively groomed thugs were waiting for her at the
school gates that afternoon. Faster and stronger than her, it was nothing for
them to take her bag and empty the contents onto the muddy verge in a fit of
cackling glee, trampling her drawings underfoot. They found the necklace,
drawing it out of the pencil case like it was a piece of snot on a string and
screeching with laughter at its primitive gaze. Hot shame and anger flushed
Georgia’s cheeks and she felt a shock, like a bolt of unseen lightning, as she
glared at Lucy strutting along the side of the road pretending to model the eye
pendant like it was the crown jewels.

Something shifted
and cracked inside Georgia. A faint smell of singed hair tinged the air. Lucy
tripped and fell back – right into the path of a speeding lorry. A scream, the
screech of brakes, a sickening thud and a faint tinkle on the pavement as
Georgia’s necklace landed next to her. A slick stream of red trickled into the
gutter.

It was the
last time that Georgia had ever taken her necklace off.

She shook
herself away from her childhood memory, again burying the horror of what she
knew she had done – though everyone else insisted it was an awful freak
accident. It had been years since she’s allowed herself to think of that day. The
exhaustion that came with being a new mother must have let her defences down.

Tonight had
been particularly tough. Sam was working a double shift, and her mum refused to
come anywhere near the baby until she had shaken her latest bout of flu. So, of
course, the baby had screamed the house down for five solid hours. Nothing
Georgia did calmed her. Not hugs, not milk, not bouncing up and down or singing
every lullaby in the bilingual book. She felt like an utter failure as a mother
until suddenly, without warning, the scarlet-faced infant stopped her senseless,
wordless bawling and flopped like a rag doll against her mother’s shoulder.

Finally, a
chance to breathe, and to wipe the baby sick off her blouse. She
stripped to her bra in front of the bathroom mirror and wet a flannel to wipe
herself clean. A blob of semi-congealed milk was caught on her pendant,
clogging up the link connecting the bead to the chain. Carefully, she pulled it
over her matted hair and held it below the tap to rinse it clean.

A piercing
squeal rang out from the baby’s room. Despair
gripped Georgia. She dropped everything, curling in a ball, banging her head
repeatedly against the wall behind her and slapping her hands over her ears.
The ear-shattering cries continued.

“WHAT? What now?” screamed the young woman. “What the hell is wrong now? Can’t you PLEASE – for the love of God –
please just stop?”

A shock of
static snapped the air as she spied the blue bead
dangling over the edge of the bathroom sink. She scrambled to her feet,
reaching for the talisman, like a drowning woman clutching at a buoyancy aid. But
too late.

Today is All Hallows’ Eve, a day when
(according to Christian tradition which usurped the older Pagan festival of
Salmain) ghoulies and ghosties and all manners of evil supernatural beings come
out for a night of revelry before the holy All Saints’ Day.

All I know is that it's a great excuse for me to put my dark narrative hat on to tell you a story or two that might send a small shiver down your spine.

Here's one to get us started...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Guilt trip

“Don’t encourage them,” he snapped at his teenage son who
was rummaged in his pocket for some change for the beggar outside the
Underground station. “You’re not helping,
just feeding his habit. Probably catch something just handing over my hard-earned
cash too.”

He eyed the
stinking bundle of rags with suspicion as he meticulously tapped a cigarette
out its packet, then looked away and lit it, forming a tent with his hands to
shelter the lighter’s flame from the guttering gusts of autumn wind. He closed
one eye against the sting of the smoke as the red glow caught and nibbled at
the filter paper.

Phil
grabbed his boy’s elbow and propelled him away, intent on putting as much
distance as possible between his only child and the street scum littering the
pavement. He changed the subject, driving home the importance of making a good
impression, making sure his son understood that he was expected to make a good
impression and not let the side down.

The fly
that settled on the back of his neck warranted no more of his attention that
the filthy beggar they left behind. It was just slapped away and forgotten, but
not before biting the tender, open-pored flesh just above his collar.

*******************

Later that
afternoon, father and son made their way across the Square. The boy’s head hung
low, despondent, as Phil jabbed at him with angry words berating him for
failing to win a place at the prestigious school he had set his sights on. John
bit back his words, knowing they would find no welcome, and stared at the
ground before him.

They never
saw the beggar, slumped like a deflated sentry at the station entrance,
watching the subterranean slowly swallow them as they rolled down the escalator
to the platforms. They never saw his minute nod across the concourse to a
grossly fat, red-cheeked woman in too-big carpet slippers secured with string,
pushing a trolley filled with plastic supermarket bags. Nor did they notice
when she whistled down the steps to a young, wasted man lolling against a
column.

A low
rumble and a gust of stale air heralded the arrival of the train. Phil pushed
his way into the carriage, sneering in disgust as he brushed against the
dead-eyed, unwashed youth that stepped aboard with his boy. His hand shot out
and grabbed John’s wrist as he saw him reaching for his pocket to hand over a
few coins for a sandwich or hot coffee. “I
told you before. Isn’t it about time you started to listening to me?” he
barked. John shrugged an apology to the parchment-skinned junkie and glared at
his father’s angry back, wondering where that black mark on the nape of his
neck had come from.

*******************

Three in
morning. Phil’s eyes snapped open in panic, frantically looking into the black
before him, trying to make sense of the nightmare images of endless brick-lined
tunnels that had shattered his sleep. He waited for his vision to adjust to the
darkness, but it remained impenetrable, oppressive. A solid weight sat on his
chest and he reached out to dislodge Jet, his wife’s black cat (or
witch’s familiar as he liked to call it). His hand met no warm dark fur with a
beating heart beneath – just a pool of icy cold darkness.

*******************

As he
stretched his jowls to shave the next morning, Phil’s eyes were drawn to a mark
on his neck, reaching dark fingers around from the back. After a momentary
flash of dread, he put all thoughts of malignant melanoma out of his mind,
splashed on some aftershave and fastened his collar and tie just a little bit tighter
than normal before heading out the door for his morning commute.

On the
train, he enjoyed more breathing space than usual, his fellow passengers giving
him a wide berth. Not that it bothered him – better not be rammed up
against the scroungers, losers and filthy foreigners scattered through the
wagon heaving with commuters. It didn’t occur to him that the black mark
reaching around to his larynx or his waxy ochre-tinged skin might have
something to do with it.

The train
lurched to a halt between stations. Suppressed groans of annoyance floated
above the passengers as they waited for it to start moving again. It didn’t.
Instead the lights blinked out plunging the carriage into darkness. The faint
glow of a dozen mobile phone screens bounced off the windows and penetrated the
gloom beyond. Grimyy bricks walls looked back at the commuters. Phil shuddered,
shrugging off vague memories of his nightmare and trying to harness his racing
pulse. His hand strayed to the back of his neck, nervously playing with the
place from where the stain was slowly but surely spreading. Unknown to him, a
new spot was rapidly forming on his left cheekbone.

The lights
flickered back on and the train creaked back into motion. Passengers exchanged
looks of annoyance and tutted at the ceiling. Phil drew a juddering breathe and
exhaled with a shaky wheeze, clutching at the upright pole for support. At the
next stop, the train spilled out its load of city wage-slaves, Phil among them.
He shifted his briefcase to his other hand and held tight onto the handrail of
the escalator heading upwards to ground level, emerging in the morning light
with a gasp to be greeted by a wide toothless grin from the beggar in his usual
spot at the entrance. He looked Phil in the eye, winked theatrically and raised
his dirt-engrained fingers to his temple in a mocking salute.

The working
day passed like any other. Sat in his cubicle, Phil worked methodically through
the pile of outgoing cases, correcting the mistakes of the inept and ingrates
he had to work with, never leaving his desk to make small-talk at the water
cooler or coo over some idiot’s latest batch of sickening baby photos. His coat
felt unusually heavy as he shrugged it on after dropping the last file into his
Out box and turning off the lights. His eyes burned and a cold sweat played on
his brow. Probably coming down with a fever from one of those low-lifes on the
train, he thought.

Stepping out into the evening drizzle, he took care not to
slip on the slick pavement, and made his way gingerly to the station. The rain
plastered his hair to his head, sending rivulets down his temples. He felt oh,
so tired. His vision swam and he grabbed the banister on the steps down the
station.

Gasping for
breath, he would have cheered if he had the strength. Coming his way, looking the
very picture of wholesome youth, was John, arm in arm with some copy/paste girl
from his crowd. He reached out a hand to appeal to his son for help, but the
boy looked straight through him, not recognising his own father beneath the
rapid decay his day had wrought. “Don’t
feel sorry for them,” he told the girl on his arm. “My dad’s right. It’s all a scam – he probably would have picked my
pocket if I’d let him get close enough.”

Defeated,
Phil made his painful way down the steps to the platform. It was packed full of
damp, steaming commuters. Seeking somewhere to rest, he inched to the end of
the platform and leant against the cracked tiles, waiting for the train. It
wasn’t due for another another 12 minutes. He let out a ragged sigh and closed
his weary eyes.

A wave of
unwashed body odour flowed past and a soft shushing noise roused him. He opened
his eyes to see the obese bag lady standing next to him in her ill-fitting
carpet slippers looking straight at him, smiling, and beckoning for him to
follow her. Once she was sure she had his attention, she turned and manoeuvred
her bulk past the little gate separating the platform from the tunnel beyond.
Phil watched in bemusement as she was swallowed by the darkness, then followed.

It was like
stepping into his dream. Brick walls, slimy with something unmentionable, and
an undefinable stench of something damp, cold, rancid but very much alive
washed over him. But he felt no dread.
He let the soft, sweet darkness engulf him as he realised that this was
where his life had been leading him all along.

Years of
blaming others, condemning outsiders, laying the faults of the world at the
feet of outcasts had paved his way in life.

I’m
hoping to add more little dark tales before midnight – both from my own pen and
from anyone who wants to add their voice around the cauldron. If you want to
join in the 'Around The Cauldron' fun, add a link to your story in the comments, or send me a message with your tale
and a couple of lines describing yourself, and I’ll add it as a guest post.

Saturday, 25 October 2014

Housework. One
of life’s great necessary evils, and one which – despite the fact that we think
we’re now enlightened and advanced – is still mostly laid firmly at the feet of
a person of the female persuasion.

That is not
good news for us slatterns.

No-one
likes housework. Some claim to, but they really mean is that they like the end
result, not the process. And if they still insist they enjoy scrubbing the
toilet bowl, picking out soapy clumps of hair clogging out of the plughole, or
wiping unmentionable stains off the furniture, they’re either lying, in urgent need of professional
help – or welcome to come and indulge their fetish at my house.

Household
chores are where things really get serious, and seriously unpleasant, for those
of us born under the sign of the slattern. While there is pleasure to be gained
from some of the subjects we’ve talked about so far in this Guide – like clothes
and food – housework holds no potential for fun, role play or hedonistic
indulgence. It just has to be done, the faster the better, if you don’t want to
be buried under a mountain of your own detritus or savaged by those weird dust
bunnies that magically reproduce under the bed.

Like most
of you reading this (it IS, after all, a Slattern’s Guide) I’m no natural-born
housewife, hausfrau, femme au foyer, νοικοκυρά, ama de casa, whatever you like to call it – not in
anyone’s language. I can talk the hind leg off a donkey, I can be a great
friend, I’m good at my job, I can make you laugh, sometimes make you cry and
when all else fails I can whip up a storm in the kitchen. Just don’t expect Martha
Stewart perfection when it comes to cleaning up afterwards.

Ironic
then, that the man I feel in love with all those years ago, and with whom I
have made a life (and a boy child along the way) is Greek. A real Greek Greek.
In Greece. With a classic stay-at-home Greek mama.

Ah, and did
I mention he’s also the first-born and the only son?

When we
moved in together, I attempted to distract any sidewards glances of disapproval
of our the unwed cohabitation by being the perfect hostess – ALL THE BLOODY
TIME.

We moved
into our flat in November and during the first month we received 56 visits from
friends, family and assorted well-wishers bringing us sweets and good wishes
for our new home. They usually arrived unannounced, sometimes less half an hour
after I’d arrived home from work.

So, I had
to make sure the place was perfect – ALL THE BLOODY TIME.

The alternative
was a mad last-minute dash round the place with the hoover, with a duster stuck
between my buttocks, as I bustled round grabbing stray items and stuffing them
in cupboards, then rearranging furniture to keep the doors closed against the
heaving mass hiding within before combing my wayward hair and slapping some
lippy and a grin on my face to greet our guests.

By Christmas, I was an exhausted,
quivering mass of knackerdom hiding under the pile of untamed gift wrappings
shoved out of sight behind the extravagantly decorated tree.

That
January, I made the only New Year’s Resolution I have ever kept – to stop
trying to meet the impossibly high standards of the Greek mother and housewife,
and just do my best.

Immediately,
the pressure was off. I let myself slob out on the sofa reading, despite the
pile of ironing lurking in the corner. I hid all tablecloths and started
using raffia mats instead. I banished all doilies and crocheted covers for… well, pretty much everything (armchair headrests,
coffee tables, sideboards, even TVs and fridges) even though it ran the risk of
offending well-meaning family members who generously donated them in the hope
of making me a fit woman for one of their men. Dust-magnets… sorry, assorted ornaments and trinkets…. were gathered up, wrapped lovingly in
newspaper, then shoved into a box hidden in the spare room.

In short, I
simplified things.

Of course,
I knew I had to keep the house decent, but I was buggered if I was going to it
solo. Poor Nikos probably didn’t know what hit him, but fair’s fair, right?

Fast
forward a couple of decades and – perhaps surprisingly – we’re still together. The
house is mostly clean, though not usually entirely tidy. We try to pass it of as having 'character', with a dash of creative flair (a great euphemism for lack of
domestic order). We devote one day a week to beating back the chaos when we wave a duster at the furniture, chuck bleach at strategic
surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom, and terrify the cat by dragging the vacuum
cleaner (a.k.a. The Screaming Box of Demons) from its lair to roar through the
rooms in an orgy of dust sucking.

But the
place is always lightly littered with books, scraps of papers, ashtrays,
cameras, flash drives, guitars cushioned in chairs designed for human rumps,
random notebooks and biros (never together) and feral teacups. I think there’s
a mythical beast of some kind living at the back of our Tuppercare cupboard,
which pushes the entire contents onto the floor whenever some foolish mortal dares
open the doors. There are no fresh-cut blooms on my sideboard, not a stitch of
crocheted handiwork or gleaming silver-plated candlesticks. There just an old baglama (a traditional Greek stringed
instrument – think of a mini-bouzouki hewn from a single piece of mulberry wood), some headphones, a forgotten shopping
list, an anonymous but hardy plant in a blue pot that’s survived our neglect,
and a large hourglass filled with purple sand.

We don’t live
in squalor. We can find things when we need them (most of the time). Visitors
don’t risk any interesting illnesses previously unknown to medical science, and
our son has survived to almost-manhood in one piece (we’ll talk about the Slattern’s Guide to Childrearing another time).
Even my mother-in-law has stopped checking the windowsills and table tops for
grime.

There’s
really only way that a slattern can survive the obstacle course of domesticity without
losing her sanity. And that is…
relax.

And always
keep one room, with a lockable door, available as a dumping ground for debris when unexpected guests come a-calling. Just make sure you’ve
had a glass or two of your favourite tipple before you turn the key and enter.

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

There are
many advantages to living the life bilingual, but possibly the most delicious
one has to do with behaving badly.

Having been
brought up in a nice, respectable family in the nice, respectable wilds of
deepest Surrey, I’m not much of a potty mouth.

I’m no angel, of course. The
occasional “Shit!”, “Fuck!” or "Bugger!" blurts out, but I usually follow-up by looking round to make sure the Mother
Ship isn't listening. As we were growing up, Mum had a zero tolerance policy on swearing, except for "Bugger" which for some reason no-one really understands, she uses frequently and with great gusto and simply doesn't consider it bad language at all, despite repeatedly having the dictionary definition shoved under her nose. I’m still smarting from the memory of having my mouth washed out with a
bar of Lifebuoy soap after sticking two fingers up at her in a fit of pre-teen pique. But to her credit, I
grew up surrounded by books and so entered adulthood armed with a vocabulary
that lets me express EXACTLY what I feel without resorting
to ‘naughty’ words.

But the
truth is, there are times when you want to – no, you NEED to – just let rip and
turn the air blue.

Enter the
joys of speaking Greek.

It’s a
great language for letting rip (if you don’t believe me, just pay a visit to
the nearest Greek tax office).

It's a terrific language for obscenity. The Hellenic dictionary of foul language is filled with words that are meaty and fibrous, they fill your mouth(oo-er Missus!)and the satisfy that need within you to tell that ***** ****** ****** who just cut in front of you just what you of think of him – and if you’re in the UK, there’s a good chance he won’t have the foggiest what you just said.

It’s an earthy, colourful tongue filled
with heartfelt oaths and insults to help you spill your guts and vent your
spleen when you really need to. You can shout out an explosive expletive of “Γαμώ τη
πουτάνα μου!” (Translation, to be said in your most measured BBC received pronunciation: Fuck my prostitute),
“Τι στο σκατα?” (What the shit?), “Αι σιχτίρ!” (Go to hell - I believe dating back the days when Greece was occupied by the Ottomans) and other delicious γαμοσταυρίδια(assorted obscenities) without making anyone bat an
eyelid.

Back in Blighty, though swearing is pretty mainstream these days, many everyday Greek oaths would be frowned on for their extreme lack of Politically
Correctness. Here, they're par for the course - and it’s probably a lot healthier
than the British habit of swallowing our bile and letting it fester inside.

It also
comes virtually guilt-free for an English import like me. I know it's swearing, but having come to the language as an adult and not an impressionable child, it doesn't really feel like I'm being bad.

Since
slotting my oh-so-British self into Greek society more than two decades ago, I've gained the ability to swear graphically without inflicting an iota’s worth
of damage to my ‘good girl’ halo from the land of my birth.

And by
assimilating my bilingual vocabulary of bad language I have created
something of hybrid, which keeps my Greek Other Half entertained. He
still chuckles at the memory of me flying round the house in the early days of
our marriage, desperately trying to create a pretense of tidiness for my
mother-in-law’s surprise visit, and roaring a frustrated “Oh, bloody, fucking γαμώτο!” as a wardrobe door that refused to stay closed
against the pile of scrunched-up clothes stuffed into it.

Greek is
great for releasing such frustrations. I’m so glad to have its panoply of
obscenities at my disposal. I believe I’m a healthier woman for it (or maybe I
just need to be, to deal with some of the practicalities of daily life here?).

But there’s
one word that my Greek will never replace. It’s one only a true Brit (or possibly
an Aussie) can say convincingly. It’s simple, direct, and conveys utter contempt
– especially when delivered in a total dead-pan response.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Let’s get one thing
straight. Slattern is not a synonym for lazy cow. You can pack up all those preconceptions
and mental images of kitchens piled to the ceiling in half empty take-away
boxes and unfinished Pot Noodles. That is not the way of the slattern – well, not every
day.

At heart, the true
slattern is a hedonist – actually, she’s a HEDONIST
is bold capitals. She loves the good things in life, so she savours the smells,
tastes, textures and even the sounds of good food. She also loves to experiment.
She just does it HER way.

Of course, there’s
plenty of room in the gastronomic life of a slattern for those precious moments
shoveling instant noodles into your mouth as you catch up on that vintage movie
no-one else ever wanted to see, chewing cold leftover pizza in front of the
open fridge for breakfast, scoffing peanut butter by the spoonful whilst you
wait for your beloved to finish shaving, or eating baked beans straight from
the tin when no-one is looking. It’s all part of life’s rich culinary tapestry.

But there are times
when we have to put on a show and play the hostess.

Instead of being a terrifying
ordeal, this is a chance to get down, dirty and diggidly creative in front
of the saucepan. It’s an adventure, often an experiment, and there may be collateral
damage along the way. But above all, it will be fun and – with luck - tasty.

Just be sure to warn
those you share your life with that the kitchen will probably look more like it’s
been visited by the poltergeist spectre of Jackson Pollock than the smoothing
spirit of a domestic goddess.

When I cook up a storm, the scene owes more to Diaghilev than Nigella, so the faint-hearted are told to keep their distance.
Stray pets enter the kitchen at their peril (and soon beat a hasty retreat at
the first sound of banging saucepans).

For the slattern, food is both about the
journey and the destination – but her dining partners would do well to just
wait patiently at the table.

Well-trained guests
who resist the urge to visit the heaving collection of bubbling cauldrons and
piles of vegetable waste in your kitchen may even be fooled into thinking you
are a genuine Domestic Goddess (capital D, capital G).

It’s a handy trick when trying to impress, so
here are a few tips:

Forget food styling – Life’s too short for a molecule’s
worth of pilaf accompanied by a sole lentil and a quartered fig artfully arranged in
the upper left-hand of a pure black plate to represent the ultimate futility
and artifice of life. Tell your guests that you embrace the rustic school of cooking
– that way you can get away with dumping messy dollops of your delicious
offerings on mismatched plates and calling it art.

Embrace short cuts – Are you seriously going to tell
me you can tell when your hostess has spent the past 24 hours creating
her own puff pastry from scratch (make the dough, fold in butter, roll out and
fold three times, chill for an hour, then repeat the whole process ad nauseum)? I certainly can’t, especially
when it has a shedload of creamy fruity sweetness or a tower of tasty roast veg
and cheese added. Ready-made puff pastry is quick and easy – bish, bash, bosh and there you go, ready to have
fun with the topping. The same goes for tinned beans, chickpeas et al versus
the more politically correct dried versions that have to be soaked overnight
and boiled for at least an hour before you can even start. Save yourself the
grief and boredom and reach for the tinned section every time – no-one will ever know, or
care. Jars of ready minced garlic and ginger are also big on saving time, not
to mention your nails and knuckles.

The freezer is your friend – From frozen veg or fresh herbs to
chuck into your creations for a last minute splash of colour, through to sauces,
soups, doughs and entire family meals (“Here’s
one I made earlier”), the freezer is a life saver. Just ask my mum. Though
she’s the absolute antithesis of a slattern who could teach both Mary Berry and
Martha Stewart a thing or two, she has three – yes,
count them, three – freezers packed with enough goodies to see us all through
the zombie apocalypse. You’ll never go hungry at Pauline’s, that’s for sure.

Go by the book, then throw it away – Create your own unique signature
dishes by adapting the original recipe according to your tastes or (more likely) what's hiding in
the cupboard. That way, you can graciously give impressed guests the recipe from your piles of Jamie/Nigella/Mary/Heston/whoever cookbooks - but they will NEVER be able to replicate
your masterpiece.

Save your presentation skills for
yourself - Cooking
the slattern’s way is a glorious but messy business, so you’re going to get a
little disheveled. Or a lot. Cooking naked isn't an option (potentially embarrassing and downright dangerous). So you can either you can
carefully cultivate a Boho persona which embraces stray locks of hair, random
stains, sweaty cheeks and smudged eyeliner, or chuck an old oversized shirt over
your hostess clothes and keep a box of wet wipes , whatever clips/hairbands/bandanas/fascinators you might need and a basic make-up kit hidden in the back of the fridge for a last-minute make-over.

Just enjoy the damn food! It doesn’t matter if you tuck into your risotto and Mediterranean veg with a big smear of balsamic cream across your forehead. It's just
one more thing that will make it a meal to remember.

Sunday, 5 October 2014

The first
signs are unmistakably, no matter how hard you try to ignore them.

That
over-exposed sensitivity scratching at your larynx, the itch in your nasal
passages, a dryness of the throat and that oh-so-attractive albino rabbit pink rim around your eyes. You fight it off for a couple of days, mainlining Vitamin C and echinacea, grabbing a few early nights and playing the carry-on game before giving in
to it.

But,
eventually, you surrender. And that’s when the fun starts.

For a cold -
whether it’s an annoying sniffle or full-blown ‘flu with a fever tap-dancing on
your brow - presents the perfect opportunity to drop the artifice of
respectability and propriety and reveal your true slattern nature to the world,
guilt-free.

Of course,
you’re going to be feeling like a human version of last week’s left-over
chicken soup (well past its best and probably a little funky), but that doesn’t
mean you can’t allow yourself to enjoy of the unexpected benefits that come
with being under the weather.

Let’s face
it, when else can you get away with sprawling on the sofa in your PJs, sipping
endless cuppas brewed by sympathetic family members, watching crap TV, moaning
dramatically to draw attention to your plight as you sit there in a cloud of self-pity surrounded by rapidly
stiffening balls of crumpled-up tissues used to stem the flow
coming from the mucus-factory that's taken up residence in your upper
respiratory tract?

One look at your rheumy eyes, chapped nostrils and cracked
lips will melt the heart of even the harshest mother-in-laws and move them to
boil up nourishing soups to speed your recovery (just be prepared for the
inevitable long, detailed narrative of great colds she or her precious
offspring have endured over the years served up with the soup). A pitiful look from beneath the bundle of
housecoats and duvets you’ve wrapped yourself in might solicit a nice Hot
Toddy from your significant other if you manage to sneeze, sniff and sigh in
their direction enough.

So, don’t try to conceal your sneezing fits, dramatic sniffs and the special relationship you’ve
developed with a soggy hanky. Let rip. How else is the world going to know what
you’re going through, and move them forgive you for your full frontal unashamed display
of slatternry?

Cultivate a husky voice, bravely croaking “Oh, I’ll live” in
response to kindly enquiries about your health. Some fellas out
there find it a turn-on, though the chances of you feeling up to
responding with any kind of sensual enthusiasm are probably on a par with the
likelihood of Queen Elizabeth popping out to the nearest open-all-hours branch
of Tesco to pick up a bottle of cheap plonk, a few alcopops and a bumper bag of
cheesy Wotsits for a good Saturday night in.

Just one
word of warning: do not, whatever you do, allow your nearest and dearest to
catch your cold. The minute they do – especially if the menfolk start displaying symptoms – your time of
wallowing in your paddling pool of slatternly self-pity and sympathy are history.